[210] Stars.
[211] Time.
[212] The sun.
[213] Aunt Toogood.
XII.
The following day, about th’ eleventh hour,
Jane heard a “tap-tap” at the parlour door;
So, suddenly uprising on her feet,
Prepared herself the visitor to meet,—
“The Reverend Alexander Gordon Jay,”[214]
(Most popular grammar-master of the day,—
Within a circle of near thirty miles,—
A man belov’d by most fair juveniles;
Of stature small, but of capacious tact;
And of his person wondrously exact.)—
Who with obeisance and with dexter hand
Proffer’d his friendship to Jane Hollybrand:
Jane fain reciprocated his intent
And lent herself to the first rudiment;
Her quick conception of the rule consign’d
Dispell’d the doubts revolving in his mind
So much that he, amaz’d, could not refrain
Adventuring plaudits in becoming strain;
Thus so far pleased with all that he desired
The doctor bowed and gracefully retired.
Thrice weekly, now, Jane’s music-master came,—
A Briton, but with an Italian name,—
Who ceremoniously improved the time
With some cadenzas—aiming the sublime—
On one of Broadwood’s fine old instruments;
Then gently introduced his rudiments
(Or some-one-else’s) in the key of “C,”
The scale of which Jane master’d dexterously;
Then, in due time, proceeded on to “G,”
And conquer’d the sharp seventh most famously;
Engaging now in “sharps” and then in “flats,”—
And all the incidental little thats,[215]—
In eighteen months she could with moderate ease
Encounter creditably the “Surprise.”[216]
And now, in turn, the dancing-master ’d come,
Release his gloves and make himself “at home;”
Unsheath his violin, then draw its bow,—
With “this” and “that” and “simply so-and-so,”—
So that he manag’d (medium-way) to please;
And deem’d, no doubt, he justly earn’d his fees.
At the appointed season of the week,
Her drawing-master, tall and rather sleek,
Veer’d round the back and palm’d the stable-boy;
Who, quite as willing—for his master’s hay
To him cost nothing—fed the craving beast,
Which soon showed symptoms of the welcome feast:
Now Jane (’tis fair to say) did not progress
In this particular art, but nevertheless
She could depict a landscape with such taste
As plainly proved her lessons were not waste.
Thus then, with time and men of such repute
As those engaged for Jane, one could compute
With some degree of certainty and pride
The joys in store for the intended bride.
[214] D.D.
[215] Appoggiaturas, a musical term.
[216] One of Haydn’s symphonies.
XIII.
Some weeks had now, thank Providence, pass’d by;
While swift as coaches, and as ships at sea,
Flew to and fro the sweet epist’lary,
And which convey’d, as dear Aunt Toogood said,
Such faithful vows as lovers love to read;
For Jane would never fail to read t’her aunt[217]
The sayings and doings upon the Continent,
Nor fail’d to report minutely and dilate
Those portions which affected Rollingate;
But always shunn’d the last impressive line
Which bore the language of a Valentine:
This simple act most rigidly observed
Obtain’d for her the credit it deserved.
XIV.
Now Jane, in Arnold’s absence, strove and won
Th’ affection—nay, the love of every-one—
Of those whose happy lot it was to share
The joys domestic which abounded there,
For all (’twas often said) would run a mile
To catch from her sweet face but half-a-smile;
Though smiles were not at all times to be seen
(Alike with peasant, prince, or king, or queen),
For in her loneliness enough would rise
To force a tear-drop from her sparkling eyes;
At eventide her sorrow seemèd most,
But in her God she never fail’d to trust:
Yes, eventide’s the time when Jane would sigh,
And sometimes—unavoidably—would cry,
As then the thoughts of home would oft recur,
For everything still there to her was dear,—
Ah! dear—and natural it should be so,—
Could she forget her birth-place? Oh! no, no:
Yet something, ’mid her sorrow, whisp’ring, said—
Be calm—be comforted, and not afraid!
[217] She now habitually addressed Mistress Toogood as “Aunt,” and not at all (it was thought) improper.
XV.
When the blest firmament unruffled is,
And sol’s fair consort hastens forth to please;
When the celestial vault is most serene,
And its ethereal wanderers are seen;
Such were the moments Jane could best impart
The silent impulse of her tender heart;
And those the moments that she loved the best—
Preparatory to her going to rest,
For then her orisons ascended high,
And she in peace could close her weary eye.
But when the time came on that Jane could trace
The weeks, the days, the hours, when the blest face
Of her dear father she again would see—
She pass’d her evenings far more pleasantly,
And chatted freely—talk’d about the flowers,
The lovely groves, the avenues, and bowers,
The lakes, and such-like things,—oh, yes! and then
She’d play, or sing to some p’rhaps favourite strain—
These words—
SONG: TO A STAR.
Sweet blest-born star—for ever winging
In the chambers of the sky,
Oh! let me join thee—always singing
Some enchanting melody.
Yes! envied beauty, ever busy
Frisking joys about the air,
Oh! let me come ere I go crazy—
Looking, wondering what ye are.
Or if thou wilt not, pray—have pity,
Carol loud enough that we,
Improving love, may hear thy ditty
Sung in matchless harmony.
E. E. F.
XVI.
Now, at the pretty ’lizabethan lodge
There liv’d (as said before) old Andrew Hodge,
Unable to perform on the estate
Aught else—and hardly that—than ope the gate:
No plan more suitable could Jove contrive—
Nor any member of the starry hive—
Than that good George to Rollingate should come
And help poor Andrew, and make this his home:
Thus, then arrang’d; time now flew very fast,
And George’s grievous hours were flown at last:
His sundry goods were ready for the van,
And he was now become an alter’d man.
The sun brought joy that usher’d in the day,
And so the hour when he was on the way:
For many a trial had fall’n to George’s lot
Since he first occupied that little cot;
But he had borne them all most patiently,
And never shrunk in his adversity
From that great duty, pray’r!—his great support,
His refuge in affliction, and resort.
Farewell to Westonbury, and farewell
To cottage, garden, grunters, fowls, and all;
In other hands their welfare now is cast,
And well for them if they’re as good’s the last!
“George Hollybrand”—they almost learn’d to speak,
But now he’s gone they’re doubly dumb and meek.
Ten hours were told; Jane listens to the wind,
Whose genial breathings thus impress’d her mind:
She fondly fancied that the breeze would bear
The far-off rumbling to her anxious ear;
’Twas not in vain—her fancy served her well,
As now the favouring winds bore up the vale
The welcome sound. Ah! who her joy could tell?—
Yet happier still when she beheld the van
(At every pulse which beat) advancing on:
She waved her ’kerchief as it drew in sight,
And thus anticipated her delight;
Her father answer’d the uplifted sign,
Then soon their tears with mutual scope combine,
For one more instant and a scene ensued
When the joy-liquid unprevented flowed.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
I.
Sweet twilight,—of all other hours most blest
For those whose prospect is their needed rest;
When down the western sphere of heav’n had gone
The great and good—the all propitious sun.
Oh, Heaven! how gracious is that mid-way hour,
When all the day-birds seek their somb’rous bow’r;
And when—if not in full—the quartering moon
Attracts the eye to the celestial zone,—
Such then the hour when George in lowly state
Trod erst the precincts of old Rollingate,
Where he was welcome—not by her alone,
Whom love begat and law decreed his own,
But every one, and one[218] among them all
Who had for years adorn’d the princely hall;
She bade him happiness and kiss’d his hand,
And wrought her friendship with George Hollybrand:
Thus then. And now the genial feast prepared
No longer waited but was meetly shared,
Till at a moderate hour they all repaired
To rest. Joy reign’d supreme; but with the morn
(Ah! where the rose, there also thrives the thorn.)
Came grief; for then the sadful news was borne
Of Andrew Hodge’s death!—the dear old man
Had swoon’d, and died just at the hour of one;
Death, monster evil, seem’d to ’ve long’d the hour
For his dark deed, and forced life’s chamber-door:
His awful mandate found n’ opposing force
So in an instant Hodge was fell’d a corse.
No longer would the poor old man relate
His thousand tales about dear Rollingate.
No longer would he make his morning-call
And quaff the goblet in the “Servants’ hall,”
Which he had done for many and many a year
And claim’d his usual “horn-and-half” of beer.
Nor would he e’er interrogate again—
As he would call her—his “young Mistress Jane,”
And list to her sweet replicating word
When he would ask about his absent lord.
No longer would the folks attending church
Behold him strutting through the western porch;
Nor would the parson ever more espy
Old Andrew Hodge, with his auxiliar eye;[219]
Nor would the children run again to meet
Him, all expectant of their Sunday sweet:—
No, no!—old Andrew now had breathed his last,
And all those trivial joys for ever past.
[218] Aunt Toogood.
[219] A magnifying glass, which poor old Andrew was in the habit of using when reading.
II.
Now, when the corpse to Appleton[220] was ta’en—
Among the mourners were “young Mistress Jane,”
And her dear father (by his daughter’s side),
Who griev’d as though he had been long allied
To the departed! but George Hollybrand
Ne’er had the joy to clasp old Andrew’s hand
Before his spirit fled, for that same night
George came to Rollingate the soul took flight!—
And this sad sense of frail mortality,
Stung George’s heart and wrung it bitterly.
O’er Andrew’s grave a tablet-stone was rais’d;
And as the sheep around about it graz’d
Arnold some day, perchance, might step thereon—
Himself to witness that the deed was done:
And, doubtless, if he lives to see the mound
A tear will trickle on that holy ground,
Where, near the spot (within the sacred fane),
Lord William’s ancestors were deathful lain,—
So that no stranger would (when Arnold saw)
Be studious sorrowing o’er the dead below.
[220] A little village, about a mile and a half from the lodge at Rollingate.
III.
Two Sabbaths, and ten days besides, gone by
Renewed the scope of pleasant memory;
And now, ’twas deem’d a prudent step to take—
That Hollybrand should comfortably make
The entrance-lodge his home, and take command
Of the subordinates about the land,—
Direct the labourers; and survey the flock,
And keep at bay all interdicted stock.[221]
Much joy and comfort seem’d again in store
For Hollybrand, who once ’gan to deplore
Almost his own existence; but now he
Saw in the future some felicity,—
And where his thanks were due, there they were pour’d,
And there his orizons unvarying soar’d.
’Twas strange, but true—that George’s birth-day fell
Upon the very day he went to dwell
(With full possession) in that pretty lodge,
Which so long shelter’d poor old Andrew Hodge:
Yes—it was so; and always on this day
He kept a sort of sacred jubilee.
It seems, by record, that George Hollybrand was born
Some fifty years ago at Merrythorn,
Which place (’tis said, by those who’ve sojourn’d there)
Had gain’d repute for its salubrious air;
And George’s father—Michael Hollybrand,
Own’d a small territ’ry of pasture-land;
But owing to some law-suit he sustained—
Worse fortune for his son—was almost ruined:
His little portion, with regret, was sold
To meet th’ opposing side’s demand for gold.
(George, it appears, before to man was grown
Went forth to labour, and to earn his own.)
Thus then ’tis hoped the prospects George now saw
Will counterbalance all his early woe.
[221] The cattle on adjacent farms.
IV.
The turnpike-road by which the cottage[222] stood
Led through a very picturesque neighbourhood,
In one direction, to the market-town,—
A place, for some-time past, of much renown,
And where the produce of this large estate—
Excepting that required at Rollingate,
Was carted, and there sold as merchandise,
Which seldom ever fail’d to realise
The highest current price. Now it was plann’d
The salesman, henceforth, should be Hollybrand,—
(For Cartwright[223] thought no man could better be
Adapted to this branch of sovereignty—
Besides a fit and proper personage
To buy and sell and labourers to engage;
He also thought for sake of his dear child,
That George would see nought wasted or e’er spoil’d.)
So with th’ assistance of young Martha Gray
(Old Andrew’s niece), whom George engaged to stay,
He ’gan to feel at home, and soon became
Possessor of a moderate share of fame;
Whilst Martha, who could read and write with ease,
Grew every day more studiously to please,
And would assist her master now and then
(When he required it) with her ready pen,—
Thus then when Hollybrand had to present
A statement of his dealings she, intent
Upon the subject, penn’d them most correct’,—
As Cartwright seldom ever could detect
Aught wrong in the account, but should there be
The steward rectified it willingly.
Thus George, who scarcely ever had to do
With such important matters hitherto,
Became so skilful in the dealing art
That he was courted at the business mart—
Yes, so much so that he at last was ta’en
As arbitrator and criterion:
And once-a-week for twenty years or more,
On Wednesdays at an usual early hour,
George to the township hied, there sold or bought;
His word was honor’d, and his custom sought.
’Tis fair to say—’Twas not for that alone
That George was noted at this market town;
But on account of Arnold’s generousness—
His great regard for all their happiness;
And—proof of this—it was their next intent,—
In illustration of their sentiment,
When he return’d home from the Continent,—
With unanimity to celebrate
Th’ arrival of the Lord of Rollingate.
’Twas rare indeed, but where there happ’d to be
A case, or cases, of real poverty
Made known to Arnold, p’rhaps by some good soul,
He ne’er demurr’d but instantly forestole
Their own anticipations with tenfold
Th’ expected silver or expected gold;
And to encourage the philanthropist—
If so invited—he would head the list,
And thus facilitate the needed crave—
To aid the living, or to find a grave
For some one dead, where were no means to pay;
Or to support the annual holiday;
According as the question might arise:
But should he e’er detect one in disguise
Soliciting his alms and feigning poor
He’d cast the wretch with vengeance from the door;
Nor would begrudge t’uplift his shapely foot
And send the traitor reeling o’er—to boot.
[222] The lodge.
[223] Lord Arnold’s steward.
V.
Returning home from market one dull day,
Unfortunately without company,
George came in contact with some vagrants, who—
When he approach’d—their trade began t’renew:
One of the ruffians, dreadful in his look,
From ’neath his ragged coat a pistol took
And aimed it straight at George’s breast, and said—
“Give us your money or I’ll shoot you dead!”
Poor George, replying to the impulse, drew
His bag and gave it to the fiendish crew
(For there were four surrounded him, so he
Could not resist their hellish mimicry;
But felt content, as ’twere, to avoid the strife—
Which in their direful hearts was plainly rife),
Most thankful that the villains spared his life.
One of the brigands made all progress vain,
Another counted o’er the ravish’d gain,
The others in the rear ransack’d the cart,
Then, all uniting, off the ruffians start;
But dreamt not justice was so near at hand—
When at its bar each vagabond would stand
Confronted with the victim of the scene,
Besides a witness who, by chance, within
Th’ adjacent field, beheld and heard them urge
Their method of attack upon poor George;
Who saw the fray accomplishèd, and fled
To give instructions of the direful deed,—
Which subsequently led to their arrest
And their removal o’er the ocean’s breast.
VI.
Now, loit’ring in a wood, they stay’d till night
Avail’d them for their unmolested flight,
And then sought refuge in a roadside-inn;
Where the carousal scarcely did begin
Ere some great noise excites the villains’ fear—
They’re startled! therefore try to disappear.
But there remain’d no shadow of a chance;
For six determined officers advance
And seize them. But what next ensued?—
They aim resistance, and with clubs of wood
Assail the constables with awful rage;
Who, in return, assiduously engage
In direful conflict, and at length subdue
The barb’rous and antagonistic crew:—
The word “Surrender,” fraught with dreadful threat,
With due submission instantly was met.
Thus, then, o’erpower’d, dejected, and dismay’d,
Like sheep to slaughter they were instant led—
With handcuff’d wrists—each to a felon’s cell,
Where they awaited their disastrous trial.
VII.
When George, that dismal eve, at home arrived,
With much emotion he sat down and cried;
But, having always on his God relied,
He thank’d th’ Almighty that the hand was stay’d,
Which at one moment threaten’d to have laid
Him low. Gray then observ’d a something, which
Made her unhappy, so with anxious speech
Besought her Master, thus: “Sir, pray thee—why
Art thou so sad?” George wiped his tearful eye
And answered her:—“Ah! Gray, I’m back again,
But coming homeward four unholy men
Molested me and took my cash, and more—
The rogues decamp’d with all our weekly store.”
Those words had scarce escaped poor George’s lips
When he was struck with the advancing steps
As of a horse (’twas now just nine o’clock)
And then obedient to a hurried knock
The door was open’d, and a voice enquired
If master Hollybrand had yet retired
To rest. “Oh! no, Sir,” Gray replied, “he’s not.”
“Will you be kind enough to say that Scott,[224]” * * *
George knew the voice and hasten’d to receive
The man of order, vengeance, or reprieve:
He said. Now finding that the men were ta’en,
George felt reliev’d from an oppressive strain;
And on the following morning, by command,
He went to prosecute th’ inhuman band,—
He strode his pony at the hour of nine,
To be in attendance at th’ appointed time.
When near the place where they attack’d him, there
George saw the fragments of some earthenware,—
A portion of his stores,—which in their haste
The robbers had incautiously laid waste:
As may be well conceived—just at this spot,
George ponder’d sadly o’er the direful plot,
But yet rejoiced to think what had befell
The treacherous vagabonds at Ruttendell.[225]
So he proceeded, and, when he had gain’d
The Justice’ Court, beheld all four arraign’d;
Who, when they saw the prosecutor there,
Hung down their heads in deep and sad despair:
No doubt their hearts were wrung, and well they might
When they observ’d their unpropitious plight,—
Especially he who beckon’d on the rest,
And held the pistol straight to George’s breast:
The one who had received a sabre-cut
Sat moaning piteously with eyes half shut,—
For on his thigh the cutlass made a gash,
And struck the bone beneath an inch of flesh:
In years of youth the others seem’d to be,
Who had forsook the path of honesty—
Intent on mischief and misrule, but now
Remorse and horror sat upon their brow.
God grant them mercy! but the law decreed
That England of such demons should be freed;
And so in time all four were sent away
To end their lifetime in old “Bot’ny Bay,”—
The merited reward of infamy.
[224] Chief of the constabulary force at Ruttendell.
[225] The market town, before alluded to.
VIII.
When Jane, as usual, took her Thursday tour,
And reach’d the lodge about th’ eleventh hour—
A plan her loving temper had devised
For both their comfort—she was much surprised
And much alarm’d—nay, felt a bit unwell
When Gray epitomised the fraughtful tale;
But at the glad intelligence that they—
The robbers—were secure in custody,
Besides the message George had left behind
To comfort and appease his daughter’s mind,
Her sorrow’d countenance lit up anew,
Her placid cheeks regain’d their healthful hue;
And she became composed: yet the alloy—
Suspense combined with deep anxiety
(Those dubious moments which must intervene
Before her father could reach home again),—
Compell’d poor Jane to shed a transient tear,
And to extemporise a passing prayer.
Some hours elapsed in this unenvied mood,
Till Martha’s warbler[226] (in its hall of wood),
Rang out its watchful note, as it was wont
Whenever any one approach’d the front,—
And never fail’d save when the darksome night
Would press its weight upon its tender sight,—
So Jane depended, and away she flew
And found the pretty angel telling true:
Wide swung the gate, and ere another breath
(Profound and solemn as the hour of death),
Jane clasp’d her father’s hand, and bade him say
What were the fortunes of the current day.
He kiss’d her cheek and smilingly replied
(Although emotion, for awhile, denied
His pregnant tongue)—“’Tis well, dear Jane, ’tis well!
Much sympathy prevails at Ruttendell,
For this sad loss; but great shall be the praise
To Him above, who hath prolong’d my days;
For at one moment in that dreadful hour
My pulse forsook its regulated pow’r,
And I, my dear, expected—sad to say—
To have been launch’d into eternity!—
Yes—thanks to God, whose providence disposed
The dreadful deed those horrid men proposed,
And prompted me, when life seem’d but a wave,
To yield the substance of the villains’ crave.”
George housed his pony, and return’d to “tea,”
And pass’d this evening far more cheerfully
Than the preceding one, and happily felt
(At length) somewhat atoned by the result;
Nor was dear Jane less comforted than he
For this escape from a calamity,—
As such it would have been (I dare to state)
For some considerable time at Rollingate;
And whilst they liv’d time never could erase
Their recollection of the painful case.
[226] A canary bird.
IX.
Now Jane, perceiving it was getting late,
Ceased for this evening to interrogate,
And bade them both a favourable good night;
Then hasten’d home, maturing as she went
The manner of depicting the event
To her dear aunt, and how t’explain away—
Without alarm—the cause of her delay;
Which she accomplishèd with praiseworthy tact,
By slowly unfolding the momentous fact,—
And so unburden’d her invaded breast;
Wept—but for joy—and then retired to rest.
But many a day Jane felt (poor girl!) unfit
To undertake her lessons, and would sit
Apparently in fear lest aught should mar—
By some catastrophe to him afar—
Her own anticipations, and destroy
Their mutual bodings of conjugal joy:
She’d read his letters (and give each a kiss),
In which, alone, she found a world of bliss;
And oftentimes a tear would damp her face
Whilst she replaced them in her writing-case.
On one occasion, when Jane heard the lark’s
Blithe carolling, she made these sweet remarks—
“Ah! little minstrel of the air so free,
None of thy kindred can discourse like thee;
Whilst list’ning to thy solo—charming thing—
I long to be a bird to choose thee king;
If so, I’d crown thee with pure wreaths of gold,
And then adventurously would make so bold
To claim thy friendship; yes, and seek thy love:
It may be thou art he that Arnold strove
One day so perseveringly to catch,
But thou, O! songster, proved too good a match.”
Another time, whilst sitting studiously
Beneath the branches of a stately tree,
The cuckoo ’lighted on its topmost limb,
And, as his wont, his simple notes would chime
Melodiously; which fell upon Jane’s ear—
That, like a statue, she sat fix’d, for fear
The slightest movement might affright her guest,
And thus disturb the darling’s transient rest:
So much delighted was dear Jane to hear
The meek enchanter piping forth so clear
Its rare alternate notes, that she could not
Refrain rememb’ring Westonbury cot:
But when the cuckoo left its perch and fled
Across the vale, Jane lifted up her head,
Exclaiming—“Oh, thou trumpeter of May!
I’ve sat in pain, almost, that thou should’st stay,
Yet thou hast flown; fie on thee, timid bird:”
But ere she’d time to speak another word
She, hearing footsteps as of something near,
Turn’d quickly round and saw an antler’d deer,
Of graceful form, the noblest of his race,
Matchless in stature, and lord of the chase:
Jane’s movements made the handsome creature bound,
Light as an angel, o’er the scythèd ground:
“Ah! nimble forester,” she said, “I see—
’Twas you that drove the cuckoo off the tree.”
X.
A year and seven months had now gone by
Since Arnold Mountjoy left for Germany:
Each new epistle borne across the main
Brought tidings of increasing love for Jane,—
Entreating her, “Be constant; for my sake
Shun company,—at least, take care to make
Acquaintance only with my choicest friends;
Be chaste, for chastity with virtue blends:
Thy tutors, dearest, write me pleasing notes,—
* * * * *
And naturally felt—if half of this were truth—
How clever would she ’ve been if, in her youth,
She had been educated by degrees
At one of England’s best academies.
Now he began to contemplate with pride
A happy meeting with his future bride;
He even fix’d the month, nay, very hour
For setting out upon his homeward tour:
(And those acquainted with this noble man
Knew how precise he’d execute his plan:)—
“Five silvery moons must run their course,” he said,
“Before I take her to the nuptial bed;
Day, godly flame, will fire the orient strand
Three months or more ere I shall reach the land,
Where, O, blest country—bounded by the sea,
I thank my God there is a home for me!”—
And as the wheel of age roll’d swiftly by
He penn’d th’ epistle which should intimate
The day he hoped t’arrive at Rollingate.